


The Ballad of Anti-Mabel

by Emberleaf23



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Don't Dimension It, Everyone is just mentioned - Freeform, Gen, Kinda, Post-Weirdmageddon, Spoilers - Gravity Falls: Lost Legends, Weirdmageddon, and the Pines Family, except for Anti-Mabel, i bad at dis, introspective anti-mabel, tale 3, there are two actually, you'll find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emberleaf23/pseuds/Emberleaf23
Summary: My take on Anti-Mabel's past, and her (non-canonical) futureA (probably bad) introspective
Relationships: Anti-Mabel and Pines Family, Dipper Pines & Ford Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	The Ballad of Anti-Mabel

Anti-Mabel sits in a dark place. The basement, she thinks she heard it called.

She's tied up in a corner, sharing the room with an old man whose face makes her brain hurt and her eyes sting.

She tries to think back, sometimes. Remember how she got here.

All she gets are clouds of smoke and glimpses of fire, scorching her skin. A voice with a horrible laugh, far too cheerful to come from hell.

He did this to her, her tattered logic mutters. He burned her skin and gave her scars and told her she was a murderer. The one who slaughtered the mutilated, scorched bodies in the corner.

Sometimes, she gets flashes of sunny days, soft grass and rubbery balls of water arching in the blue sky.

She thinks those are hallucinations, because they don't make sense.

There is no ball of light in the sky, nor is the sky blue, but a bloody, clouded red. Grass is dry and crackly, muted grays mostly stained with red. Balls of water aren't real, either.

The people in this place she's in, their faces painfully familiar for reasons she doesn't know, they have skies that are clear but darkened, and she swears she saw it continuing to blacken.

She used to know warmth, joy and happiness and love, but she doesn't remember that.

She used to have good friends beside her, helping her believe in herself.

Their blood now stains the black stones of the Fearamid. She doesn't remember their names, just bloody clumps of red hair and pink fabric, green flannel cloth strips and broken hair bands.

Perhaps one band had once belonged to her.

Sometimes she sees glimpses in her dreams of impossible things. Towering robots and strange monsters and bright smiles, somehow devoid of awful intent.

A blue hat with a tree on it, kind and courageous, suddenly torn to shreds and covered in blood. Several different brightly colored sweaters, a select few bloody and torn and ripped to nothing.

Sometimes, she'll see a bloody fez, darkened red stark against the lighter strawberry. Maybe even a book, with gold and numbers and scars scribbled on the cover.

When she sees it, the thing radiates sadness and shame, arrogance and oblivious trust, misplaced pride and a sorrowful end. A forgotten sentence creeps into her ears, the words too fuzzy and scrambled to hear.

**£€@R #*# B€@$T ₩!*# JU$* ON€ €¥€**

She doesn't care for it. She gets the sense that it was burned, anyway.

There are a few scars she got naturally, small and unnoticeable unless you're looking for them. The rest are from Him. The savior of her dimension.

Why is He the savior? Why, He exiled her, of course.

She is dangerous, the murderer of the bodies in the black brick pyramid. The one who has hurt hundreds by simply being near them.

He is wise to have exiled her, a hero to have saved the world from her horrible onslaught of death and destruction that follows her wherever she may go.

Her mind is too tattered and her logic too broken to see the holes in his story, his actions.

And so she'd found herself in an odd place. Pink crystals had dotted the purple plains and alternate versions of her skipped around, cheerful.

Cheerful, like He always seemed.

Was this how she was? Laughing about destruction aloud, grinning as she thought of the blood soon to be splattered on her clothes?

Truly, He was right to exile her.

And yet, despite being just like them, she felt disgusted by the others, kept her distance.

The other versions of her always muttered about various things like 'glitter' and 'knitting' and 'family.'

The first two made her chest bloom with painful happiness, making her yet more afraid of the others.

But the third... it made her heart want to burst with unknown feelings, hurting so deep, no dagger or salt water or lemon juice could find it's way there, or ever hope to rival the painful fire.

So yes, she'd kept her distance.

Until one came.

One who wasn't like the others, seeming discontent and slightly annoyed. The first one who wasn't smiling.

This made her the most trustworthy, despite the protests from her shattered logic, another lost sentence glazing across the darkest corners of her mind.

**T*U$T N○ ○N€**

The trustworthy one tells Anti of her family, a boy and two old men and a pig and two teenagers and they sounded so familiar it made her heart hurt again and why was she doing that Anti thought she was _good-_

But then Anti speaks with an idea and the truck touches down and she locks the kind her in a closet and why was there a closet there that didn't even make any _sense-_

And she pretends to be the other her and they're nearly there and the old man with the odd hands is sealing up the rift but the kind her is jumping through and fighting her and explains and then Anti's being captured and taken to the scary shack that is so painfully familiar and-

_And._

And sometimes, she'll see ghosts out of the corner of her eye. They're covered in wounds and blood, always wearing sad and angry expressions, but she gets the feeling they aren't mad at her, for some reason.

They try to talk once or twice, but she never hears them. The boy with the curly brown hair seems depressed, tear tracks always evident on his face. His throat is slit.

The old man with the suit seems angry, clenching his fists and jaw, eyes glittering with rage and sadness, and, oddly, apologies. A slash parts the fabric of his shirt, having struck his heart.

The old man in the trench coat seems shameful, head always hanging low so much that she can see the blood seeping from his scalp, slicking his gray curls together. Sometimes, he's crying too. He has too many injuries to tell which killed him.

A red-haired teen paces among them, lips always pulled back in a snarl. She is vengeful. There are blistering burns decorating her throat.

An old man with a white beard trembles by the boy. He is afraid. Shards of his glasses stick out of his cheeks, forehead, and eyes. He is blind, and the glass in his eyes pierced his brain.

A man with a beat-up baseball cap stays close to the old man with the suit. He is in shock. A black, pointed cane is stabbed through his heart.

A little girl with blonde hair lingers near the old man with the trench coat. She is uncertain, trying to figure out if she is angry, afraid, sad, or some combination of the three. Her ribs are broken and her lungs are filled with blood.

A black-haired teen shifts his feet uncertainly. He is apologetic, remembering how cruel he was to those around him in life. His blood is spilling from the wound under the stitched heart of his hoodie.

A white-haired boy shutters. He is the youngest. He is disgusted, with both himself and Him. He wonders why he hated those around him in the first place. He's impaled by ten daggers, five in his throat and five in his heart.

The ghosts hover by her, always grouped together. She can't hear their whispers.

_I'm so sorry, everyone. To you most of all, my dear._

_She doesn't remember us anymore, does she?_

_I'm gonna kill that ############._

_I have to save her. But how?_

_Does she even remember anything before Weirdmageddon?_

She doesn't remember the ghosts' names. Perhaps she used to know them.

She looks closer at the old man she's in the room with.

A trench coat, odd hands, gray curls...

She freezes.

He's one of the ghosts, yet also alive.

They _all_ are.

And little does she know, her thoughts are connected to a screen above her, and the old man is staring in shock.

\-------------

They set her free.

They ask her to stay, which is odd.

They say they want to help her.

Sometimes, people other than the three come around.

A man with a white beard, now trimmed and washed. He isn't blind, his brilliant mind unscathed.

A man with a beat-up baseball hat. No pointed cane pierces his chest.

A little girl with blonde hair. Her ribs are unbroken, her lungs un-pierced and full of air.

A black-haired teen with a black jacket. There's no wound under the stitched heart, no bloodstains on the zipper.

A white-haired boy. No daggers line his throat and heart.

A red-haired teen. There's no blistering burns decorating her throat.

\---------

An- _May_ is 15 when she recovers her mind completely.

There are still nights where she sees triangular shadows and expects to see blood staining her new families clothes.

Where she wonders why the sky isn't red and why she can't smell smoke and blood and death. Wonders why the grass is green instead of stained with dark red.

But they help her through it.

One night, around the campfire, May's original family shimmers into existence, with blood soaking their clothes and thankful smiles on their lips.

 _"Thanks for taking care of my sister."_ May's twin whispers.

With that, tortured souls are set free.

Laughter and sobs both bubble at May's lips.

She smiles completely and genuinely for the first time in 2 years.


End file.
